


The Serpent Nanny

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Child Warlock Dowling, Childhood, Crowley Loves Warlock Dowling, Gen, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Winged Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: In Ashtoreth's defence she really did think Warlock was too young to remember when she first tried to distract the child with shiny scales.Now he's using crocodile tears in an attempt to draw them out of her. She's so proud.
Relationships: Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 14
Kudos: 155





	The Serpent Nanny

The child is crying again. Lilith Ashtoreth, as she is currently calling herself, holds firm. Warlock sniffles, rubbing at his eyes in a poor attempt to hide the inquisitive squint he gives her as he tries to judge whether his manipulation is gaining any traction. Against her will, the edge of Ashtoreth’s lips quirk into a proud smirk. The waterworks start back up. She uncrosses her arms, rubbing hopelessly at the bridge of her nose as she sighs. Warlock hiccups pitifully. 

“I should never have shown you this,” she berates herself, “It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Sensing her resolve crumbling, Warlock shimmies across the floor to lean up against her leg. When she glares down at him he grins and starts making grabbing motions in the direction of her glasses. She knows what he wants. “You little hellspawn,” she scolds, folding herself to join him on the floor, “ _Fine._ If we must. But you _will_ be on your best behaviour when you join your mother and father tonight for dinner. Won’t you?” 

Warlock nods eagerly, “Of course, Nanny.” 

“And for Satan’s sake, no telling anybody, especially Brother Francis,” she taps the side of her nose, “Our little secret, remember?” He’s practically buzzing with excitement and she rolls her eyes, leaning closer in permission. A very un-demonic squeak of joy emits from the little antichrist as he slips the glasses down her face. She gives him a cheeky wink. 

In the next few seconds she flattens everything from her hair to her heels into glittering scales, Warlock erupting into gleeful laughter as she surges around him. Honestly, she’ll never understand why Aziraphale chooses to wear clothing made from actual physical _material_ instead of that summoned from the ether. It would make shifting forms incredibly impractical. 

Warlock spins in place as she coils around him, feeling herself ripple across his outstretched palms. She lowers her head once she’s encased him, flicks her tongue out to tap his nose as he giggles. He’s the happiest he’s looked all day. 

It takes him a few tries to figure out how to climb out of her stacked coils but that’s half the fun. She shifts as he gains his footing, a breathless huff leaving him as he collapses back into the midst of her coils. 

“Nanny, you’re cheating!” 

She tosses her head, twists to study him out of one eye. “Now, whoever went and told you the world wass fair, little hellssspawn? Bessidesss, it’ss not cheating if I’m jusst ussing my natural talentss.” It isn’t easy to smirk in her reptilian form but she gives it a good try. Warlock’s eyes glint and he launches forward and wraps a fist around her closest exposed fang. She snorts in panic, rearing up but the kid has a stronger grip than she gives him credit for. She keeps her jaw carefully loose and glares at him. 

“I’m just using my natural talents,” he bounces back at her, smug, “Not my fault you don’t have fingers.” Her eyes widen and Warlock starts to look uncertain as the scales shift around him. Her fangs shorten as she wraps herself back into humanoid form and wriggles her regained fingers at his belly. He shrieks and falls back as she pounces upon him for a tickle attack, writhing and squealing. He squirms and she mimes a fatal kick as his legs flail, falling dramatically onto her side as he eagerly turns the tide. 

“Mercy,” she gasps, “Oh no, you best me, I surrender!” He scrambles up her back as she folds herself back into scales, hugging her neck as she rears carefully. 

“Onwards!” he cries, his rebellious steed brought to heel and she concentrates, casting her senses out to make doubly certain that nobody is likely to interrupt them. Wings have no place on earthly serpents, but then wings have no place on perpetually turning wheels either and eyes have no business being so abundant even on one of God’s earliest creations so as far as Ashtoreth is concerned she can do what she damn well pleases. 

Warlock wields an imaginary whip as he slips back only to find himself seated at the base of widespread wings that have chosen to erupt from what a moment ago were a shower of scales. Ashtoreth beats them showily as she rears higher, using them to keep Warlock safely saddled as she keeps her centre of balance atop her coils. 

“To battle!” Warlock exalts, “We will crush the wicked!” 

“No, dear,” she hisses tolerantly, “We are the wicked.” 

“We will crush the good!” Warlock corrects exuberantly, unphased. Ashtoreth hisses and spits indulgently. 

Warlock bounces happily and she makes a display of striking and ducking around invisible enemies, shifting her wings as if in flight. Perched atop her, Warlock alternates between the “pew-pew” of pitched laser gun combat, the “hisss-zing,” of flaming swords, the “rat-a-tat-a-tat,” and “bang bang” of good old fashioned mechanical guns. 

Eventually her newly imagined wings begin to ache at keeping a frenetic antichrist aloft and she fans them warningly. “Enemy bassse,” she hisses as Warlock gasps, “Sshall I dive, Commander?” 

“No prisoners!” Warlock demands, “Dive! Dive!” 

She swoops low, letting him slide forward along her neck with a whoop of delight as his arms dart around her before pulling up and slipping him back against the base of the wings she’s starting to regret materialising. She writhes higher before letting them fold out of existence and a newly unseated Warlock squeals happily as he wraps his limbs around her and slides down her angled length until he slips with a huff of air into the pool of her coils. 

She curls back around, sinking to watch him amusedly as he pushes himself into a sitting position among her scales, looking absolutely ecstatic. She flicks her tongue one last time at the tip of his nose, revelling in his laughter as she slips back into a form with arms and legs and sleek black clothing. She flicks a pair of sunglasses into existence, sliding them on with a practiced smile. 

Warlock is lying across her legs, caught by a case of the hiccups. She taps him on the forehead and his lungs calm down, the boy wrinkling his nose at the strange feeling of the occult spark. 

“Didn’t I tell you, you’d have no trouble vanquishing your enemies,” she tuts slyly, “Now come along, dinner will be starting soon and you want to look presentable for your father, don’t you little hellspawn?” 

“Aww, _Nanny,”_ Warlock pouts but they both know he’s already lost. 

“What do we say?” she reminds him winningly. 

“A deal’s a deal,” Warlock repeats heavily, “Okay, Nanny.” She ruffles his hair as he crawls off of her legs. 

“Oh do look up,” she encourages, “I have the feeling they’ll be serving your favourite tonight.” 

He perks up at that, squinting at her knowingly. She ushers him out towards his bedroom. “Only if we’re on time,” she warns and he picks up the pace, bolting for his bedroom. 

“Race you there!” 

“Oh you little rascal,” she snorts, trotting after him while trying desperately to maintain her illusion of elegant respectability. 


End file.
